Mother
by Lewisa Clark
Summary: An exploration of how the family might react to Margaret Eppes's death.
1. Default Chapter

"**Mother"**—a Don angst story

By: Lewisa Clark 2005

Rated:PG-13 Warning: scenes of illness/death

Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional and has no legal connection to the actual t.v.

show, Numb3rs, owned by CBS.

**Chapter 1: "A Single Tear"**

Don opened the door of his parents' house and walked in, removing his sunglasses and setting them down on a small table near the entranceway. "Dad?" he called, slowly making his way further inside the house. At the sound of Don's voice, Alan came out from the main floor bedroom. Seeing the tired look on his father's face, Don asked, "How is she?"

"Not good, son, not good. I—I don't think it's going to be long now." Alan sighed deeply and heaved himself into the nearest chair, settling into a mood of resignation.

Don laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to go talk to her. Where's Charlie?"

Alan gave his shoulders a slow shrug. "I don't know. He was in the garage this morning, locked up with his math, but I think he went out." As Don turned to go, he added, "Don?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Don't—don't say anything, okay? I mean, there's no point in upsetting her. We've already said everything that needs to be said."

"Okay." Don took a deep breath, steeling himself for the scene he would find in the bedroom. When he got there, everything was, unfortunately, just as he'd remembered it from the previous night. His mother was propped up against some pillows, wearing her usual sickly peach-colored nightgown. She was drifting in and out and with her eyes partially closed, she looked like she was already dead. Her pale cheeks looked hollow, her eye sockets sunken in. The limp arms resting atop the single cover were alarmingly thin. Don had seen her like this nearly every day for two months, but he still hadn't gotten used to it. In the beginning, he would bring movies over for the two of them to watch on the little television set he'd bought for the room, or he would help her finish a crossword puzzle—she'd always loved word games. But for the past few weeks, she'd been in too much pain and on too much morphine to be able to concentrate on anything. He and his father had watched her slip farther and farther away from them, retreating into a world that neither could imagine. Alan had been able to make a kind of peace with the inevitable, but for Don, younger in wisdom and used to shaping his own destiny, the thought that his mother was going to die was inconceivable. He knew, rationally, that it would happen—soon. But a large part of him refused to deal with it. And he suspected Charlie was reacting in a similar way. His little brother had been much closer with their mother than Don, and he feared that Charlie's mind could not handle the possibility of separation.

"Don?" She was stirring, lifting her heavy eyelids halfway and peering out at him.

"Yes, Mom, I'm here," Don said, perching gingerly on the edge of the bed.

"I must look…so awful…" she mumbled, weak from the effort of speaking. "Can you…?" She summoned the strength to lift her right hand slightly, pointing towards the nearby dresser.

Don followed her gaze to the wooden surface and saw a box of Kleenex and a hairbrush. He reached over and picked up the brush. "Is this what you want?" She nodded almost imperceptibly and he tried to hand it to her.

"No—can you…?" she asked.

Don gripped the brush lightly and ran it through her soft, silvery hair, being as careful as possible so that she wouldn't feel the harsh metal bristles against her tender scalp. As he brushed his mother's hair, he swallowed hard, choking down the lump in his throat that had been steadily growing since he saw the look on his father's face. She looked so pitiful and he couldn't push out of his mind the terrible fact that there was nothing on Earth he could do to help her. When her hair was sufficiently smoothed, he returned the brush to the dresser and took her small hand in his. "Mom--" he began.

But she shushed him and whispered, "Read to me."

He glanced at the book on her bedside table—_Walden_. She had kept it beside her bed for at least fifteen years. He picked up the heavy, annotated hardcover edition and it fell open to her favorite section. He cleared his throat and began to read, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not…" His voice caught in his throat and he tried to continue, "…and see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…" The page was fuzzy underneath his watering eyes.

"Don?" Alan had entered the room while he was reading. He walked up to Don now and gently pulled the book from his hands. "It's okay, son. I'll take over. Can you keep an eye on the stove for me?"

Don rose, unsteadily but gratefully, squeezed his mother's hand, and left the room, the soothing sound of his father's voice following him out the door.

The next evening, Don returned to the house after a day spent wandering aimlessly around the streets of the city, avoiding work and leaving his cell turned off. If there was any news from his father, he didn't want to hear it. He flipped through stacks of old record albums, trying to lose himself in nostalgia. Finally, as the sun started to set, he realized he had to face reality sooner or later. It might as well be sooner. When he got to the door and tried the knob, he found it unlocked. He pushed his way inside and called out, "Dad?" but this time Alan didn't answer. Don knew his father wouldn't have left his wife alone in the house and if he had gone out, he would have locked the door. His heart quickening with increasing dread, Don quickly kicked off his shoes and walked towards his mother's bedroom. He could see Alan through the open doorway, sitting on the bed bent over his wife, his head resting on his arms.

"Dad?" Don asked gently.

"She's gone," he whispered without lifting his head.

As Don walked into the room he could see that his mother's eyes were closed—she looked like she could be sleeping, yet there was something different about her and he knew it was true. He felt his own eyes close involuntarily, half from relief, and half from an all-consuming grief that coursed through his entire body, spreading down from his head, through his chest, to the bottoms of his feet. He knew he should cry, but he couldn't. As much as he wanted to cry, to release everything he'd been pushing back inside himself for months, he couldn't. He felt suddenly numb. Then he opened his eyes again and looked down at his father, who hadn't moved from his position, half-lying across his wife's torso. Don said in a quiet voice, "How long have you been here? Maybe it's time…"

"No." Alan spoke firmly and clearly, still not lifting his head from his arms.

"Dad, c'mon…" Don moved closer and rested his hand on his father's shoulder, exerting a light pressure.

"I said _no_!" Alan shouted, raising himself up and twisting around violently to rid himself of his son's touch. Immediately regretful, he added in a gentler tone, "Not yet."

Don nodded, understanding. He walked over to the head of the bed, bent low over his mother's face and kissed her forehead slowly, feeling the skin still warm under his lips. "Goodbye, Mom," he whispered to her. "I love you." Straightening himself, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his parents together.

Just as he finished removing his jacket and hanging it carefully in the front closet, the door burst open. "I'm close—I can tell—just a few more calculations and I'll have it this time! Oh hi, Don." Charlie was carrying some papers and he dropped one of them in his rush to get back to his chalkboard. Don stooped to retrieve the fluttering sheet, looking up at his brother as he did so. Charlie saw the completely blank expression on Don's face. He felt the tension in Don's shoulders as he handed him the paper. Comprehension began to creep into his mind, shoving aside all the numbers and formulae that he'd kept there for weeks. His brow creased and he opened his mouth to say something.

"Charlie…" With this one word from Don's lips, he knew instantly what had happened. Charlie took a few steps into the house, glanced into the bedroom and, seeing his father sobbing on the bed, turned back and ran for the door. Don tried to catch his arm as he went past, but the smaller brother slipped away from his grasp and began to run off down the street. "Charlie, wait!" Don stood in the doorway for a few seconds, considering whether to go after him or not. Then he went back inside and closed the door. He would come back when he was ready. In the meantime, Alan would need Don's help.

While his father was saying his last goodbyes in the bedroom, Don got on the phone and made some calls. He didn't want Alan to have to deal with all the details, and he'd had enough dealings with doctors, bodies, and morgues that he was able to run through it all fairly dispassionately, like a work-related routine. Having something to do kept his mind off his own pain. Then he called the funeral director of the place his father and mother had agreed on months earlier, and spoke to him. About twenty minutes later, by the time Alan emerged from the room, Don had also called several relatives to let them know the news. When he saw his father approaching, he stuffed the notepad, on which he'd scrawled some information about the funeral home, under the phone book on the counter. He extended his arms and Alan accepted the embrace this time, folding into it as though he could no longer stand on his own. Don held him tightly for a while, then broke away. "I've arranged for everything, Dad. You just worry about yourself right now. You want a coffee or something? A scotch?"

Wiping away his tears, Alan just shrugged. Don went over to the liquor cabinet and poured two stiff drinks. He handed one of the heavy crystal tumblers to his father. "She's not in any pain anymore. Right?" Alan's eyes were pleading with Don to give him something to hold onto.

"That's right. She's at peace now, Dad. It's the best thing for her, and we just have to try to not be selfish about it."

"I wanted to keep her with me, you know?"

"I know." Don drank half his scotch in one gulp. The two men stood in silence for a minute. Then Alan spoke.

"I thought I heard your brother come in."

Don sighed and set his glass down on the counter.

"Did he come home, Don? Does he know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he knows. I'm sure he'll be back soon."

Alan's parental instincts kicked in and his previous look of bewildered grief changed slightly to one of concern for his son.

Don saw the look, and added, "He'll be fine."

"I don't know about that. Charlie… I just don't know."

Alan was in the bedroom with his wife, saying a blessing, while Don waited in the front room for help to arrive. He stood, not wanting to be comfortable, and tried to sort out the many thoughts and emotions running through his mind. He knew his father would be devastated by his grief for a while, but he was most concerned about Charlie. His little brother was often somewhat absent minded, burning the toast because he was too busy mulling over some probability equation in his head to pay attention to life's mundane details, but Don didn't think he was capable of entirely losing his grip on reality. Still, staying at home to be there for their father, if nothing else, would have made a hell of a lot more sense than running off to God knows where like a child who thinks he's going to get in trouble. What could he be doing? Charlie didn't drink. He wouldn't be crazy enough to try to hurt himself…would he? Questions swirled around in Don's mind as he half-listened to the hushed tone of his father's voice coming from the bedroom. Then the voice stopped, and Don could hear nothing but an awful silence. Silence, and a kind of a "tick, tick" sound somewhere in the distance. He listened harder. It was coming from the garage. As he walked towards the sound, he recognized it as the hurried tapping of chalk against a blackboard. Charlie must have come home through the side door.

Don opened the door to see Charlie frantically scribbling numbers and letters, his hand and arm moving so quickly that droplets of perspiration were trickling down from his forehead. He didn't stop when he heard his brother come in. Normally he would have been listening to music as he worked, but tonight he only cared about the numbers. Somehow, he felt that if he could solve this equation, everything would be alright. He had to put the world back in its order again.

"Charlie!" Don called out from the doorway. Charlie didn't answer—he just kept on scribbling, working himself into a frenzy. Don walked closer and tried again. "Charlie, where did you go?" No response. "You should come in now. Dad's worried about you. Charlie?" Still, Charlie ignored him. White chalk dust speckled the dark brown skin of his forearm. His nearly-black eyes focused on the board in front of him, taking on a possessed look. He only paused long enough to brush a shiny curl back from his face, but Don seized the opportunity. Lunging forward, he grabbed Charlie's arm, forcing it away from the blackboard. Charlie resisted at first, straining his muscles to return to his work, but Don overpowered him and the chalk fell to the concrete floor with an anti-climactic little thwack. Don did not release his grip but kept his hand tightened firmly around his brother's forearm. "Charlie!" he shouted. "Stop!"

Charlie blinked and allowed his gaze to slowly shift from the board to his brother's face. Don's brow was wrinkled, his eyes narrowed to slits. His lips were slightly parted in disbelief. He looked Charlie straight in the eyes and spoke in as calm and firm a tone as possible. "Charlie, you need to stop this now. I know what you're doing. I understand." Charlie tried to twist away, but Don held on. "I understand that you're in shock. You don't feel like you can handle thinking about her being gone. But you _can_, Charlie. You're stronger than you think you are. She's _dead_, Charlie. Mom is dead. You can't pretend it's not true." Charlie let his arm fall limply to his side, and Don let go. "Let me help you."

Charlie's body visibly relaxed, and he let go of a deep breath as his shoulders sunk. He looked up at Don and his eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Don!" he cried, falling against his big brother's chest and sobbing unrestrainedly. Don wrapped his arms around Charlie and held him tightly. He put a hand on the back of his thick head of curls and whispered, "It's okay, buddy. I'm here. I'm here." A single tear escaped from his eye to roll down his cheek, and Don let it fall.


	2. Chapter 2

"**Mother" **

**Chapter Two**

It had been two weeks since his mother's death, and Don had held himself together through it all—the funeral, the burial, the obligatory visits from well-meaning friends and relatives, endless dishes of kugel. He had watched his father retreat further and further into himself just as Charlie was starting to open up, and seeing it broke his heart. He was used to counting on Alan's sparkle, the love of life that somehow emanated from his face, and the warm sound of pure contentment that came with his low chuckle. But now, the sparkle was gone. In its place, Alan's eyes had become dull and vacant, given to staring off at nothing in particular for minutes at a time without blinking, until they watered. Don wouldn't have minded so much if they watered from sadness, if his father let his grief out through his tears, but since the funeral he had not seen Alan cry. He wasn't sure what stage of grief this technically was, but it didn't take a psych major to recognize the signs of depression. Alan barely got out of bed anymore, sleeping until two or three in the afternoon and then only sitting in his La-Z-boy in his robe and slippers until one of his sons called him to the table for dinner. All of his desire to be part of the world seemed to have left along with Margaret.

On the other hand, Charlie had really been coming around. Don had helped him through his shock, his sadness, and his anger, and now he was trying to be there for Charlie as he tried to get back to his normal life. In some cruelly ironic way, their mother's death had actually brought the two brothers closer together. They had gotten into the habit lately of meeting up at the end of the day just to talk or watch movies. On nights when Don's work kept him from coming by, both men felt the other's absence keenly. They had become friends.

But now, fourteen days after his mother's death, Don was suddenly, inexplicably, feeling his world crumble around him. He didn't understand why, but each day was becoming more difficult than the next. He went to work, he did his job the same as always, and he watched over his family as best he could. But when he was alone and no one was there to see it, he would start to think about her and not be able to stop. Tears would stream down his face even though he was silent, standing still at the window, looking down to the garden below. He would stand like that for an hour sometimes, in the middle of the night, unable to sleep and unwilling to make the long drive back to his own apartment, just repeating over and over in his mind, "_I miss you_." He hadn't had any trouble returning to work after her death—in fact, although he was entitled to a compassionate leave, he didn't take it. He had shown up for work the very next day. When his father and Terry had begged him to take a few days off, he had dismissed them easily. "Why?" he'd shrugged. "I'm not sick! What am I going to do at home?" Everyone seemed to expect such behavior from him anyway, and soon they stopped bugging him about it. He was always the strong one.

"Always the strong one," Alan murmured.

Don shook himself back to an awareness of the room around him. "What's that, Dad?"

"You were always the strong one, poor Charlie." He was holding a framed photograph of the four of them at the beach—Alan and Margaret standing behind their sons with their arms entwined around each other's backs; a teenaged Don striking a macho pose, flexing his biceps for the camera; and Charlie, thin little Charlie, looking like a bedraggled dog just out of the water, his wet hair hanging black and shiny against his cheeks.

"Yeah, I guess so. I was a better swimmer than him, that's for sure," Don said, looking over his father's shoulder at the picture. His eyes moved from Charlie to Margaret, and studied her face closely. Her hair was loose, her smile was wide, and she looked even happier than he remembered her being. Once again, Don stopped his own daydreaming to think of Alan. "Dad, you've been sitting here all evening. You're gonna get bedsores pretty soon." The second he said it, he cringed. Quickly, he added, "C'mon, let's go for a walk. It's beautiful out—I'll buy you an ice cream." He walked around to face his father, held out a hand, and smiled.

Alan sighed, placed his much larger hand in Don's, and struggled to his feet. "Okay, but I want tiger paw."

"Aw, you know what a mess you make with that!" Don joked. "Only if you promise to eat it all outside." He took the picture frame from his father's other hand and set it down gently on the side table. "Let's go."


End file.
